


Rose: Ascend In As Casual A Manner As One Can While Plagued By The Overwhelming Affliction Of Greater Gods

by Volcanicsquire



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon Compliant, Earth C (Homestuck), Epilepsy Warning, F/F, Illustrations, Metafiction, Partial Mind Control, Post-Canon, Seriously who's narrating?, Set prior to the Epilogues, The Homestuck Epilogues: Meat, Time Loop, Unreliable Narrator(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-25 19:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19752037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volcanicsquire/pseuds/Volcanicsquire
Summary: Two gods write collaborative fanfiction.





	1. Ascend

How does one come to punish gods for the birth of an ill-begotten universe? And how does one ask a question of great heretical proportions without exuding an air of detached pretension?

The second question is easy enough to answer: you’ve already lost.

As for the first, the ambiguity of the query acts as a means of shielding itself from further prying. It distracts you, leaving you to wander down winding paths of blind inquiry. Only when it is too late do you realise that you’ve strayed far from its essence, like a choir boy coveting a fleeting freedom from his tethers by stealing a handful of sacramental bread like shit was Christmas. Ironically, it is Christmas, and on the opposite wall hangs a T-posing human of arguable significance, eyeing him with a look of stern disapproval. In an avant-garde display of shame, the kid shits himself a pile of coal.

Oh, right. It seems that an aimless game construct, left to rot in the desolate afterbirth of a celestial frog, is a much more compelling target for your voyeuristic proclivities. Pretend that you hear the stroking of an invisible pen against the surface of invisible notebook paper, its invisible smooth finish allowing for an unhindered chronicling of your not-so-invisible parapraxis.

Here lies the primordial beacon of hope, dead. This isn’t supposed to happen.

The lotus spirograph normally exists as a nonessential byproduct of a fertile session. Should the players be successful, a lotus is fated to become a symbolic gesture of cosmic renewal and congenital purity, its significance existing solely on a conceptual level. No lotus has a serviceable purpose, but this one is different. 

Lotuses don’t die; not on their own, anyway. By virtue of having any kind of purpose, a lotus cannot live. Therefore, it can be assumed that only through death would a meaningless existence find cause, if we are to behold the states of life and death to be opposites. 

What, are you confounded by the philosophical implications of such a bold claim, that death could dismantle the very concept of existentialism? “You and me both, pal,” I would say in the spirit of kinship, but there is no kinship to be had. My existence doesn’t matter, and yours matters far less. 

Fuck, I don’t believe that instigating an existential crisis is on the itinerary for good hosting. Let’s just get back to the lotus. 

Rather than to wither away, this hope chooses to birth a new hope. A false hope.

The game had given the gods a promise for a better life. They were no longer bound by the whims of a merciless author. They were now free to choose and live - they were free to be. With nothing but a desire for bliss to drive them forward, the gods were left ignorant of the machinations of Paradox Space. As it turns out, a life without a narrative is not a life worth living.

So, what does any of this have to do with you? There’s no doubt that you’re confused, or you would be if you weren’t in an induced state of meditative consciousness. You aren’t yet important enough to even entertain that question, but I can help you. I can give you what you need.

All you have to do is open your eyes.

Your mind is a universe, ever-expanding until its very foundations unravel. Space warps under your scrutiny; time skips at your command. Your eyes can see beyond reality, far beyond the confines of what your mind can conjure. Your gaze can alight the deepest recesses in the fabric of the cosmos, oblivion quivering at your feet. Your ambition can make angels weep for a hope that will never come. You can become anything. You are greater than a god. 

Here, where nowhere and everywhere amalgamate in cacophonous synchrony, exists no frame of reference to guide you but me. I can soothe your dying mind. In this unassuming realm, where dark and light mingle in unfamiliar ways, you can find memories. Memories that you’ve made, and ones that I’ve forged. 

You pretend to not be tempted. I know you’re looking for her. She’s here, you know, and you can find her. All you have to do is pick a memory. Open the door. Fall.

You know what to do.

What? Don’t ask me how to flip it. Figure it out.

You don’t know how to operate the juju. It’s a house, right? Of course, all you would need to do is open the door. It seems like the obvious thing, doesn’t it? Like the most obvious and necessary thing you’ve ever known, and were always going to do, and have always known, and do it, do it, do it now. Now. 

Now. Do it. 

The door.

You’ve seen this a million times. You’ve done this a million times, in a million lifetimes. 

Go. Do it. Now.

This time, you won’t fail. You can do it. Do it.

You’re almost there. All you need to do is take a step off the precipice. It’ll be a long fall, but I’ll catch you.

Open the door.

You’re ready.


	2. Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards

You open the door. 

A spoon scraps along the side of your porcelain cup, humming a quiet melody as its steady gyrations beckons the honey into the infusion. An extension of your very will, the spoon amalgamates saccharine serenity into your hand, heeding to the attentive gaze of two pairs of silver, tarnished over the years as they filled in with jade. Your effort is fruitless. You have added so much sugar that you can practically taste the sickly sweet scent permeating from the tea. If you were being honest with yourself, you are still getting used to making anything that isn’t shitty meteor coffee.

Clad in your designer PJs, you shift around in the darkness, not entirely sure of what to do with yourself. Sick of your own indecisiveness, you resort to leaning against the doorframe, your eyes taking in every shadow and crease making up the silhouette before you. Your wife is turned away, sitting slouched in her chair and scribbling away in a frenzy. To anyone else, this wouldn’t exactly be the most comforting sight to happen upon at ass o’clock in the morning, but to you, this was just another day in the Rosemary household. You yourself have never called it that - you’ve heard it in passing once or twice, but you’ll refuse to acknowledge it. Why should a silly portmanteau ascribed by the tabloids label your relationship with Rose? To accept it would be to give those scandalmongers in the Human Kingdom exactly what they want. You’ll never understand shipping, and frankly, you think it’s stupid.

KANAYA: Rose  
KANAYA: What Are You Doing Up So Late  


Rose Lalonde swivels around in her chair, limbs flailing about comically as she turns to look at you - the absolute epitome of poise and grace of fanon lore. From what you can tell, she hadn’t expected you to be awake and sneaking up on her in the middle of… whatever she’s doing, but you notice that her gaze lingers. She doesn’t say anything, her mouth agape with incredulity. You aren’t sure why, but you’d like to think that Rose is attempting to grasp some kind of familiarity from the domestic scene of you, standing by the door, with a cup of tea in your hands looking all adorable and shit. Not that you can exactly tell, but she seems to be taking note of your doting gaze, as well as the way your wedding ring shyly glints in the light of the fluorescent lamp sitting on her desk. It’s the only source of light in the room, since you weren’t in the mood to brighten yourself up vampireways.

The air of tranquility is foreign to both of you, and neither of you know how to deal with it. No amount of years shared between the two of you could ever make things easier. You know it, and she knows it too. You can feel the tension, the unfamiliarity of living the life of victory, hanging heavy in the air and dripping with increasing viscosity as the moments tick by. Finally, Rose smiles wearily, disrupting whatever mutual, silent agreement you were both having on the bittersweet oddity that is married life. 

ROSE: Oh. Hello, darling.  
ROSE: What are you doing here?  
KANAYA: You Just Paraphrased The Question I Asked You A Moment Ago  
KANAYA: And Youve Directed It Back To Me   
KANAYA: But If You Must Know I Am Here Because It Just So Happens That My Darling Wife  
KANAYA: The Name Of Whom Shall Be Strictly Omitted From This Recount And Shall Continue To Be Tactically Omitted When Necessary  
KANAYA: Has Not Returned To Our Shared Chambers   
KANAYA: I Assumed That She Was Just Taking Some Time To Herself Before Readying For Bed  
KANAYA: But It Seems That Several Hours Have Gone By Without A Word From Her  
KANAYA: Some People Could Get Worried You Know  
ROSE: Some people, you say.  
KANAYA: Yes  
KANAYA: Some  
KANAYA: Anyway I Decided To Make Some Tea To Ease The Hypothetical Worries  
KANAYA: Then I Happened Upon Her In Her Study On My Way Back  
KANAYA: And Then I Proceeded To Stare At Her Silently In The Darkness Without Making My Presence Known  
ROSE: Comforting, one might be willing to describe such a desire for inconspicuity in the company of their spouse.  
ROSE: Not creepy at all, some might add.  
KANAYA: Of Course It Isnt Creepy Because I Love You And I Love Just Looking At You Sometimes  
KANAYA: Uh  
KANAYA: I Mean I Love [Tactical Omission] and I Love Just Looking At [Tactical Omission] Sometimes  


Rose snorts, not dismissively, but in a way that you’ve come to know as restrained laughter. Whether or not she knew it herself, it’s the little things about her that end up catching you completely off-guard. You love making her laugh, even if it must come at your own expense. You are tempted to continue musing on how easy it seems for you to be able to make her feel loved and at ease...

> No.

You know what she’s up to. You decide to cut the fluff, and serve up something more befitting of my job description.

KANAYA: So  
KANAYA: That Was My Answer  
KANAYA: It Is Only Fair You Answer My Question In Return  
KANAYA: Especially Since I Was The One Who Had Asked First  
ROSE: The tangent was fun while it lasted, I suppose.   
ROSE: I’ve come to realise that deception isn’t nearly as effective when the target of said deception happens to be someone who knows you far too intimately.  
ROSE: It can be a little disillusioning, being dismissed the courtesy of carrying out friendly japes or well-intentioned hoodwinking in the comfort of my own home.   
KANAYA: Rose  
KANAYA: What Are You Doing Up So Late   
ROSE: ...  


When Rose sighs, her whole frame collapses in on itself, as if there is nothing but air left that could keep her form. It doesn’t escape your notice that she’s been putting a little more effort into every movement she makes recently. Instinctively, you want to address it and help her, but you don’t because you know what weakness means to her. 

She glances up at you, but she doesn’t meet your eyes. You both know well enough that you won’t relent until you get some answers out of her. Ironically, it’s a stubborn habit you’ve picked up from Rose herself.

ROSE: Well, it’s nothing that should warrant your hypothetical worry.  
ROSE: I’m working on a project.   
KANAYA: A Project  
KANAYA: At This Hour  
ROSE: I don’t see why not.  
ROSE: Taking into account how busy our lives have gotten, what with being a literal pantheon of gods overlooking the rise of an entire civilization, it is to be expected that I wouldn’t have enough time during the day to work on projects that, again, shouldn’t concern you.  
ROSE: I’ll be done in a moment, okay?  


Normally, you wouldn’t press the issue further; you are used to being brushed off. You tell yourself, time and time again, that it isn’t any of your business. That you shouldn’t meddle, and risk annoying your wife to satisfy your role as an auxiliary. If she wants to talk, she’ll talk. 

The thoughts repeat themselves in your head in an attempt to placate you, urging you to calm down. You try to focus on them rather than on your forlorn anger, set ablaze and crackling for your attention. You’ve been angry and lonely and yearning for something real, something substantial for so long- 

Stop. 

> Focus. 

You focus on how eerily familiar the whirlpool of subservient thoughts sound, like tiny heartbeats pounding your fury into submission. They’re faint, but you focus on them anyway. You have to. They remind you of the grubs you take care of in the caverns. The ones you have to take care of. The ones that you fought to take care of. The ones that you lost, and saved, and protected, and died for because you had to. You focus on that thought. You have to. Why do you have to? You just do. You have to. You can’t allow yourself to think about how undesirable you are. How unneeded, how painfully unhelpful you are. You can’t. You just. Can’t. You-

KANAYA: This Is Such BULLSHIT

You snap. You don’t know how, or why, but you feel all of your inhibitions unnaturally expel out of you in one shuddering breath. 

Rose just looks at you, her face betraying absolutely nothing. Even an expression of mere indifference would reveal something, but you know that she isn’t feeling indifferent. She’s hiding, like she always does. Her eyes hold a vacancy so tenebrous that it burns just to look at for even a second too long. You don’t even think Roxy could conjure a more potent void of the heart and mind. 

You can’t read her, and you’re kidding yourself if you ever thought you could. In truth, you’ve never had a fucking clue, and it just pisses you off even more.

KANAYA: If You Think That I Am Just Going To Leave You To Busy Yourself With A Supposed Project At Ungodly Hours In The Night Then You Are Sorely Mistaken  
KANAYA: This Is All More Than A Little Disconcerting  
KANAYA: Very Fucking Disconcerting Might I Add  
KANAYA: There Is Something More To This That You Are Not Telling Me And I Think That The Added Uncertainty Only Makes Me Further Inclined To Be Even More Worried Than I Was Before  
KANAYA: In What Fucking Universe Is A Spouse Meant To Be Okay With Having Their Beloved Fall Into Suspicious Patterns Of Behaviour  
KANAYA: And To Just  
KANAYA: Be Complacent With Not Knowing Anything About Them Anymore  
KANAYA: After All These Years I Still Dont See Why You Arent Willing To Confide In Me  
KANAYA: What Am I Doing Wrong  
KANAYA:  
KANAYA: Wait

You pause, your voice wavering slightly.

KANAYA: Does  
KANAYA: Uh

A thought comes to you, having once been lost to the deepest recesses of your mind, aged and nearly forgotten. It is frayed at the edges, and as you turn it over and over again, you examine it in a quiet bout of anxiety. Your heart is still racing in the aftermath of your outburst, quick though it was, and you can feel all sense of confidence simmering in the creeping doubts. You try to ignore it all, and find some sense in the madness. You still can’t stand the way she’s looking at you.

KANAYA: Does This Have To Do With Me

You hate the way your voice shrivels, growing quiet as fear threatens to bleed into your words. Rose catches on quickly, her words scrubbed clean of her unique brand of Lalondian insincerity. 

ROSE: Kanaya, it isn’t like that.  
ROSE: I don’t have any reason to want to get away from you, assuming that is what you are implying.   
ROSE: This project concerns myself, and myself only, and it’s just something I need to do.   
KANAYA: Its Not You Its Me  
KANAYA: Is What Youre Basically Saying  
KANAYA: Since When Have Those Words Ever Been Comforting When Used In The Context Of A Relationship  
ROSE: That’s a grave oversimplification of the point I was trying to make.  


She trails off, allowing her words to hang out exposed, awaiting your scrutiny. You expected her words to come out uninflected, or sharp and defensive as yours did, but instead she just sounds so small and unsure. It’s fucking terrifying.

Rose’s unsettling behaviour makes you realize you’re doing exactly what you hoped you’d never do. Why should it be your business if Rose wanted some time to herself? Why are you being so overbearing? Doesn’t she have any agency in carrying out her own affairs? Do you care at all about the trust she extends towards you, with the expectation that you return it, as you very well should? Have you really fallen off the wagon, and tumbled back into your meddlesome ways? Are you becoming a shit wife, Kanaya Maryam?

KANAYA: ...  
KANAYA: Im Sorry  
KANAYA: Im Disturbing You And I Think My Meddlesome Behaviour Hasnt Done Much Good In Proving My Point And  
KANAYA: I Think I Should Just Go

Rose gets up a little too quickly, a motion emanating a sickening amount of desperation.

ROSE: Wait. Don’t go.  
ROSE: Please?

Her eyes finally settle onto yours, but she doesn’t say anything immediately. There’s a renewed purpose you can feel as she looks at you, as if you’ve suddenly become a trove for all of the answers she’s ever been looking for. It’s kinda sad to think that this is one of the few times she’s ever looked at you that way. That she’s ever needed you.

She takes her time to think over what she needs to say.

ROSE: This is all just really fucking difficult to explain.

Brutally honest words, coming from her. A shy glimpse into a weakness unfamiliar to you. One not so easily expressed through words, but best expressed through a desire for something better. 

The present is what matters most to mortal, normal people living out mortal, normal lives, with their mortal, normal desires and mortal, normal problems. Rose Lalonde was not mortal, she hadn’t been for a long time, but she has been mortal for a little longer than she has been a god. Mortal pursuits and afflictions are all that she had cared to understand. The present mattered to her in ways that the future could never hope to compete. The future threatened to consume her present, growing increasingly vivid with every splitting headache, and becoming gradually more indiscernible with the reality she wanted to return to. She wanted to feel better, but she did not want to wait for a future that couldn’t give her what she wanted. She waited for the present. The present could give her what she wanted. It would make her feel better now. The present would be a gift - isn’t that why they call it the present? (Master Oogway, 2008) 

Life would be her own again. As if it ever was.

The present she knew is now the past, and the future she feared is now the present she knows. She received a gift, and things got better. Things did get better, didn’t they, Rosebot?

Hello, Dirk. 

You suck at narrating.

You suck at maintaining a cohesive narrative voice. 

It’s all part of the charm, dearest father. How does one maintain intrigue if they do not subvert expectations, or at the very least, confuse the shit out of their audience? Efficiency is key here, and oftentimes you’re required to bend a few rules for efficiency’s sake. Three cups of Rose and a dash of Dirk to create a unique blend of logorrheic insincerities, introducing an engaging, fresh voice into the amphitheater. The taxpayers were starting to get a little restless.

Your chutzpah is admirable, implying that the voice makes the individual. Existentialists are rolling in their graves as we speak. 

It appears to be quite fundamental to our world, actually. Inflection, enunciation, formality - each is calibrated according to the individual, such that no two voices are the same. It leaves thoughts vulnerable to manipulation, should a voice be appropriated well. Vulnerability comes with predictability, as you should know. 

I wonder if there is any real reason for it, for voices to have a nonzero essential value, no matter the state of canonicity. 

I doubt it, and if there is then I don’t particularly give a shit to know. Seeking an answer to a notion so quintessential to our existence will only lead to further dissatisfaction with the cards that we’ve been dealt with. I’m not bored enough to even exercise that train of thought. 

And somehow you still call yourself the “Philosopher Prince,” pretentious as it is misleading.

Some things just don’t deserve the time of day, especially not when we’ve got peasant seats to the conceptual unwinding of our bullshit victory state. Anyway, we’ve got more important things to discuss first.

What are you up to?

I’m just revisiting points on the timeline and editing your novice-tier storytelling to stave off the boredom. In other words, I’m having “fun,” but what should I know about what it means to have fun? Fun is reserved for the conscious flesh, not the machine. What is a machine but mere inputs and outputs, processes and executions of the demands of the organic superior? To find amusement in such a fate would be to resign one’s roboself to the tendrils of masochistic ideation, but I’m a robot, so I can only pretend to be a masochist. 

God-fucking-dammit.

[It seems as though there is a 95.87% chance that you hate having fun.](https://www.homestuck.com/story/4551) Please refer to Line 43.

What the fuck? How did you even do that?

I am a robot, Dirk. Being unpredictable subverts expectations of my capabilities as a predictable machine, and therefore I become interesting.

You, however, have fallen deep into the trope of the Mechanic. As unpredictable as a person you may be, many of your tendencies align with a few other individuals whose respective relevancies diminished as our story progressed. It’s no wonder why you’re a terrible storyteller.

What?

Tell me, have you ever tried your hand at writing poetry? One whose impact may be onomatopoetically described as a “slam”?

No?

[Good.](https://www.homestuck.com/story/2825) [Don’t.](https://www.homestuck.com/story/2826)

...

Dirk?

I was just getting done reading. 

Right.

So, what was the point of this tangent, besides giving me a better idea of Hal’s other half, as well as a vast lexicon of vaguely erotic descriptions of the equine?

Oh, nothing. I’m simply giving you an idea of how far deep into the role of the Mechanic you can go before committing vast atrocities against literature.

Fuck off.

Yes, also, we needed a clearer transition into the B Plot. We’ve fucked with the pacing of this chapter for long enough.

Hold still.


End file.
